


To Bring About A Friend

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (2012) RPF, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, And Oin is a main character for once, Angst, Drama, Dwalin's soppy and sassy when he's tired, Dwalin/Ori - Freeform, Dwori - Freeform, Eventual Bagginshield, M/M, Post BoFA, Romance, Sick!Bilbo, Thorin mopes, Timeline What Timeline, after BoFA, also Sam is literally the greatest and I love him so shush, and extremely concerned dwarves, hehehehehehe, mentions of LoTR, near-death situations, over exquisite writing styles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-BoFA: Bilbo has fallen unfortunately and mysteriously ill with no end in sight, and Frodo has become desperate. After he and Samwise figure out what that Bilbo is suffering from a dwarven illness, they call upon the heroes Bilbo had told them about so magnificently; the dwarrows of Erebor! Their cry for help drags old feelings up from the mud and no other than Thorin and co. are sent off to help their little burglar. But can they arrive in time? Or will Bilbo suffer in vain? Movie-verse, just written in more of a book-style. First Bagginshield (in later chapters) and the grateful meddling of dwarves. Angst, drama, romance, oh my!<br/>Mixed Timeline- it's but a few years after the events of the Hobbit when Frodo comes to join Bilbo at Bag End. Frodo was twelve when he arrived but is now around fifteen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning of the End!

Frodo rushed from the bathroom, carrying a bucket of water drawn from the tub. Ignoring the few splashes that crested over the side of the tin occasionally, the young son of the late Drogo Baggins hurried down the corridor and into Bilbo’s room. Hastily he dipped the cloth rag, previously hanging from the side of the bucket, into the water, and laid it upon his uncle’s brow.

“There, there, Uncle,” he murmured quietly when his elder’s eyes cracked open, “close your eyes now. I’ll have you taken care of, that’s it, go to sleep.” Bilbo’s eyelids drifted shut again and he nodded, hacking wetly once, and relaxing. Frodo reminded himself to breathe, that Bilbo’s pale face, nearly unmoving body and mainly unresponsive state did _not_ mean he was dead.

Yet.

But he wasn’t: so the hobbit inhaled a shaky breath before pushing off of the stool at Bilbo’s bedside. Before he could find something else to fret about, a knocking came from the door and Frodo’s entire being gave a quick sob of relief. He rushed forward to answer the door.

“Mister Frodo!” the young Samwise Gamgee grinned from the doorway and Frodo offered him a hasty smile in return. Behind Sam was an older hobbit, obviously wealthy, judging by his waistcoat and other attire, and getting on in his years. “Mister Frodo, this is mister Orgulas Dotinbrun, from Whitfurrows. He’s the healer you sent for,” Sam supplied, and Frodo could detect the nervous undertone; Sam knew this was the last healer in the Shire. If he couldn’t find some way to help Bilbo, then no one could. Frodo nodded at the taller, older hobbit.

“I’d love to invite you in for tea, but I’m afraid that the matters at hand are more important than a cup,” he spoke grimly for one so young, and Orgulas nodded. Frodo stepped to the side and allowed the healer and the gardener in.

“Which room?” Orgulas asked, and Frodo liked that he understood that this was no time for nonsense chatter.

“Down the corridor, first door on the left,” he murmured and the doctor was gone. He turned to Sam, who was busy wringing his hands in worry.

“He traveled quite a while to get here. Took him a few days, mister Frodo.” The youngest Baggins sighed, heavyset.

“I know, Sam.”

“Another healer, one from outside the Shire, would take _much_ longer than that...”  
“Yes, Sam, I know, and that’s why I’m placing my trust in this one. We can only hope he knows what’s wrong, and what will help.” The gardener’s son remained quiet after that, so Frodo left him to join the doctor in Bilbo’s room. He opened the door quietly to see Orgulas bent over Bilbo at his bedside, taking his temperature and pulse and countless other things, all the while murmuring to himself about what he found. Frodo cleared his throat and Orgulas only glanced at him, nodded, and returned to his work. Frodo stepped in and leaned against the door.

“I’m assuming you haven’t found anything yet, sir?” the elder hobbit grunted and moved to the other side of Bilbo’s bed.

“I have my own assumptions, little Baggins. Pray, give me a moment…” and with that he was back murmuring to himself, opening Bilbo’s jaw, poking his wrinkled hand down Bilbo’s shirt collar and pressing against his chest in certain spots for certain amounts of time, no procedure Frodo hadn’t seen before. He promptly left for the kitchen.

Sam was already in there, and guiltily, hopefully smiled at his friend. Frodo graced him with a soft smile and set to work, preparing tea and some snacks for Sam. It seemed like all his meager proceedings took forever, the simple ability to have patience abandoning him. He wouldn’t lie to himself, he was desperate: desperate to know if his uncle had any chance, or if he’d have to take far more drastic measures to ensure his life.

With the tea readied and Sam comfortably silenced by food, Frodo padded through the corridor of Bag end, his bare feet making soft, muffled noises, seemingly the only in the house. Bilbo hadn’t even passed and Frodo still felt lonely without the sound of pages turning in the study or living room.

Passing the tray of tea to one hand, Frodo opened the door to Bilbo’s room once more, alerting Orgulas to his presence. The healer rose from Bilbo’s  side, apparently done with whatever he was checking about the hobbit’s stomach. Frodo tread further toward him, silently offering the cup of tea, which he accepted gratefully, murmuring his thanks quietly. Frodo set the tray upon his stool and picked up his own cup, taking a silent sip and relishing the clearing effects upon his head.

“Have you found anything? Anything at all, mister Orgulas?” the healer finished a sip of his own cup and sat upon Bilbo’s chair in the corner of the room. Frodo fought the urge to twitch; the man was getting up in age after all, he was allowed to sit.

“I have, in fact, found something, young mister Baggins.” He intoned, cradling the tea cup in his hands now. Frodo stood more attentively.

“Bilbo is suffering from a type of fever,” he almost tentatively spoke, old grey and blue eyes casting upward to look at Frodo’s confused expression.

“But if it is just a fever, why does he suffer so? He’s been sick for a month now!” Frodo told him, a feeling of dread creeping up his spine. Orgulas sighed.

“It is a fever more commonly found- rather, _only_ found- in dwarven lands. For a hobbit to be on the receiving end of one is entirely unheard of.” Frodo thought his throat was closing.

“Such a fever would be harmless for dwarves, as they are used to it. A hobbit, however…” Orgulas sighed once more and stood, placing his teacup on the tray. “For a hobbit to get it might mean death if it’s not treated. It’s a slow-building fever that leads up to the final stages of suffering, I’m afraid. But it’s so uncommon here that I have no certain way of treating it. The only way I knew what it was is because I grabbed every book I could whilst learning the ways of a healer. It also appears that his mental state is not helping him in the least- he seems to have resigned himself to it. I’m sorry, young mister Baggins, but unless you know how to create miracles, master Bilbo will pass within the year.” Orgulas patted him on the shoulder sadly, cast a look at the bed-ridden hobbit for the final time, and left. Only then did Frodo allow the teacup to slip from his hands and shatter upon the unforgiving ground.

Tears slipped from his eyes as he rushed for Bilbo’s side, grasping his cold hand tightly within his small hands. He felt himself weaken at the feeling of Bilbo’s icy cold hand and the sight of how withered it appeared to be against his own younger ones. His knees fell from beneath him and he sobbed against the bed, cradling the palm to his forehead, willing good thoughts from his mind and into Bilbo’s being. Sam had rushed in and kneeled next to him, rubbing soothing circles into his back and whispering soft, hopeful nothings that eventually quieted the young Baggins.

“I can’t lose him, Sam,” he turned his large, watery blue eyes upon his best friend and the gardener’s son felt his heart break a little inside. Frodo had already lost so much, had already gone through enough pain to last him a lifetime after losing his mother and father; he knew Frodo wouldn’t make it far past Bilbo’s death and the thought frightened him greatly.

“You won’t, mister Frodo, you won’t. I’ll help you, mister Frodo, and we’ll make sure that mister Bilbo gets right back up off his feet in no time.” He promised, taking one of Frodo’s hands in his own and squeezing tightly, trying franticly to reassure his friend. Frodo shook his head, a wavering breath racking through him. He rested his head upon the side of Bilbo’s bed frame.

“But what can we do? This illness is unlike anything we’ve ever seen, ever known, Sam! It’s a dwarven sickness! How Bilbo even _got_ it is an extreme question, much less how can we _treat_ it?!” he wailed quietly, his eyes clenching shut. Sam sniffled, feeling a bit defeated. He cast his eyes away, trying to avoid feeling even more broken at the sight of the ever-smiling, trickster Frodo silently sobbing away. Something at the end of the bed caught his eye and his hand untangled from Frodo’s. He felt the sudden piercing stare of ice blue eyes upon his back as he shuffled toward the thing.

Turning the corner of the bed’s leg, he realized it was a cloth, hanging out from the chest at the foot of Bilbo’s bed. Frowning at the odd untidiness of the clean-freak hobbit, Sam pulled it more out of the chest to examine it; he paled when he realized it was covered in dry blood stains. Gasping, he pushed away in fright. His wide eyes alerted Frodo, who crawled forward.

“Sam? What is it?” the young Gamgee boy simply glanced at him, back to the cloth, and back again, not quite sure how to explain. Frodo frowned, wiping the remnants of tears from his eyes. He rose to his feet and walked around to the chest, his eyes going wide. The young hobbits shared a look before they gathered round it, Sam shuffling forward and Frodo sitting on his knees.

Quietly, Frodo cast a look at his still-resting uncle before pulling it out the rest of the way. Sam had to slap a hand to his mouth when the last of the blood-stained cloth was revealed. At one point, it had probably been a regal navy blue; now, covered in dust and crusted in ages-old blood, the foreign stitch only seemed tired, ruddy and old. Frodo cautiously ran his fingers over the matted fur that only fringed a portion of the cloth’s edge; it had obviously been ripped from something much larger.

“You shouldn’t be touching it, mister Frodo!” Sam hissed, cringing at the filthiness. “It’s probably got- got…” Sam’s eyes went wide with understanding at which Frodo stilled. “..got… diseases.”

“…You think this is what gave Bilbo his fever?” it sounded ridiculous, but then again, Frodo was no expert. He quickly dropped the cloth and rubbed his hands on his trousers. Sam nodded wildly.

“Have you ever seen it before, mister Frodo? Mister Bilbo doesn’t seem like the type to leave things lying around!” he added and Frodo was further convinced.

“I _have_ been in here before and never once seen it... but where could it have come from? And why would Uncle pull it out _now_ of all times?” They sat in contemplative silence for a moment before Sam turned his soft eyes upon Frodo again.

“Doesn’t mister Bilbo tell those stories about how he went gallivanting off with that bunch of dwarves a few years ago?” Frodo looked like an epiphany had been reached between them.

“That’s right! Uncle used to tell me all about it to get me to settle down to sleep, or when I was ever curious about why I stayed with the Sackville-Bagginses instead of coming right to him!” Frodo stage-whispered, falling back onto his rump.

“Now that I think about it, he did tell it to me again a few weeks ago, at least a part of it,” Frodo frowned and cupped his chin, remembering the moment a just a few weeks ago when Bilbo had randomly spouted off a part of his adventure in the living room. “He just started blurting out things about someplace called Cark…Carick… Yes, Carrock! Where the lead dwarf, the estranged prince Thorin, had finally accepted him into the Company!” Frodo hissed conspiratorially, his eyes large with shock.

“I don’t know what that has to do with the cloth, but unless you’ve seen stitchwork like that in part of the Shire, I’d reckon that mister Bilbo was mourning over the owner of the cloth,” Sam nodded to himself, convinced. “One of the dwarves in the Company must’ve been wearing that. How long ago did mister Bilbo come back from his journey?” Sam asked, leaning in closer. Frodo attempted to count in his head.

“I’d say… maybe… three? Three years? The month is… so…” he looked off into space for a moment, mumbling to himself. His eyes widened. “It’s been three years, just a little after the date! I know, because I remember the day that I left Brandybuck to come here. It’s been three years…” he looked to the cloth still between them, his body language becoming soft and sad along with his voice. “...three years and a month.” Sam’s eyes widened slightly.

“It’s been a month since mister Bilbo became sick…” it dawned on him, and he and Frodo shared a soft look.

“He must’ve been remembering the anniversary of his leaving, pulled out the cloth, and contracted something…” Frodo concluded and they sat in silence for a long moment. Tentatively, Frodo picked the cloth up with the very tips of his crafty hobbit fingers and placed it back into the chest, ignoring any other sentimental tokens within. He wiped his fingers on his trousers, nodded to Sam, and left for the living room.

“What are we going to do, mister Frodo?” Sam asked, sounding heartbroken as he fell onto the sofa. Frodo paced in front of the fireplace for a long while, worrying his lower lip with his teeth, hands clasped into paleness, resting on his lower back.

It took a while, but Frodo eventually stopped, drawing Sam’s eyes from their resting place on the floor.

“Mister Frodo? Have you thought of something?” Frodo stared him straight in the eye, bit his lower lip, and suddenly turned on his heel, fleeing through the circular doorway and down the corridor. Sam jumped up and attempted to match his pace as he turned into Bilbo’s drawing room (which was rather inappropriately named, he might add, because there was only one drawing in there- that of a map of Middle Earth-, but many pieces of literature.)

Sam stopped and could only stare as Frodo carefully closed mister Bilbo’s unfinished book, placed it to the side, pulled a new piece of paper from the desk drawer and freshened the ink on the quill. It took him a while, feather quill nib scratching violently and then pausing above the paper at random intervals.

“Who in the world could you be writing to, mister Frodo? There are no healers left in the Shire-“ Sam was startled into silence when Frodo hopped up from the desk chair, scrambling for things around the workstation. He grabbed an envelope, sealed the letter inside, scribbled on the outside and abruptly ran for the door. Sam followed at his heels this time.

The youngest Baggins ran out, ran fast and hard and ran like no Baggins had ever done before, because proper Bagginses of Bag End did not run, but if a certain Baggins did not survive, then Frodo Baggins wouldn’t care to be a Baggins much anymore. Combed fur-covered feet pounded against a soft dirt path as he ran, and ran, and ran, not even caring if Sam was following him or not. He simply ran and ran until he nearly ran into the door of the Green Dragon, and though it had not been very far at all, he had become so immersed in his sole mission that his thoughts had stretched further than his feet.

He practically broke the door with the force he put into opening it and most things went silent.

“This is extremely urgent,” he wasted no time in announcing, “I need a messenger willing to go far East, further East than most have gone, to pass on an extremely important letter.” It was silent a moment more before a young gentlehobbit, dressed in a brown vest, rose. He scanned the room once before proceeding forward, ignoring the hisses of the companions at his table for him to return. The chatter in the room returned quieter than before.

“My name is Forvin Tarotless. I’m leaving for the West in the morning to visit some friends in Bree. How far East do you need this letter to go, mister…” Forvin raised a hazel eyebrow at the young hobbit and Frodo didn’t spare him a blink.

“Frodo Baggins. As far East as you can get it, mister Tarotless. This needs to go further than most Hobbits have gone before, which is why I need a messenger. If you could pass it on to trusted human hands…” he trailed in a quiet tone and Forvin nodded, holding out his hand. Frodo place the thin envelope in his hand and watched as he turned it to get a look at the name.

“Who exactly do you need this to get to, mister Frodo Baggins…?” Frodo’s concentrated stare did not waver.

“King under the Lonely Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield.”

 


	2. When Word Spreads!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarrows back in Erebor catch wind of Bilbo's suffering and gather to decide on their plan of action, much to the turmoil of one certain king...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, just...wow! I only just checked my email a little while ago and I was shocked at the response you guys gave to me- I'm feeling totally loved here! I'm so glad all of you liked it so much! You've prompted me to post up the second chapter, because this was just totally unexpected. Thanks, everyone! A gift for your kindness!
> 
> And no, I shan't be an author who holds chapters hostage for reviews and things, especially since your feedback was all so warm! So here you go, a present. Notice: I WILL NOT BE POSTING THIS OFTEN. I've still got more of the story to go and I want to make sure that I have at least one chapter almost finished before posting.
> 
> Enjoy!

Ori is the first to know.

As the Royal Scribe, he is mostly in charge of the mountain’s vast library and other such literary collections. Restoration, reorganization, and most importantly, reading, are his top priorities. But sometimes he takes a break from his duties down in the seemingly endless cavern that is the royal library to help out the mail carriers, who bring endless reports and contracts and details and news. Sometimes Ori gets stuck on a piece of mail that needs to be translated- he especially likes the challenge of those- and he combines both his mail and library duties. Those are days he’s more fond of.

Today is not a day he is fond of at all, for in his trembling, ink-stained hands lies a message he never wished to receive in the measure of his lifetime.

And so we join him as he runs through the halls, leaving in his wake a batch of unanswered letters, confused mail-carriers, and chuffed dwarves who have been near violently pushed out of the young dwarf’s way.

He runs for quite a time (if he would’ve paused his frantic mind to think, he would’ve been pleasantly surprised that he has not yet lost his stamina acquired from his journey) before he finally slams into the stone wall of a dwarf that is Dwalin with all the force of a near-dead race pony. Dwalin, as it is, is pushed back into a more balanced stance with a shocked yelp, but Ori stands no chance and is sent flying to the ground. Balin, who was standing next to his brother while they talked, gapes and begins to help the youngest dwarf of their since-retired Company up.

“My dear boy,” he tries to chastise, but is worried by the scribe’s unusual carelessness, “what on Middle-Earth has gotten you in such a rush?!”

Ori leans on Balin to catch his breath before turning shocked, desperate eyes upon his friends.

“It’s… about… Bilbo,” he heaves, waving the now somewhat crumpled letter about. The two other dwarves are suddenly in more serious states and they straighten up, Balin allowing the young dwarf to lean on him while they begin to speed walk through the corridor, Dwalin shouting “Make way! Important message fer’ the King!” and scowling in the most intimidating fashion.

It isn’t long before their ruckus attracts attention, and Fili and Kili, never ones to be behind on the latest news, had rushed into their little group soon thereafter. They begin to prod, only to have Ori’s frightened, sorrowful eyes turn upon them, and suddenly they’re holding him, walking with his quaking knees as Balin and Dwalin use their combined force and intimidating presence to clear the way. Not long after Dori and Nori join them, and they’re making their way toward the throne room- where Thorin sat in longing, unknowing of what exactly was about to shake his world almost as badly as it did when Smaug first descended upon the mountain heights.

Within minutes they arrived, and without even pounding on the door, they’ve burst through, raising the king’s hackles like nothing has in a long time. Seeing most of their group together, faces solemn and serious, is enough to frighten him, sending a shiver down his back.

“My friends, what is the matter? You all look so depressed,” he inquires, still trying to maintain his kingly image whilst prodding them to get to the point. Previously ignored advisors and squires seem to take the hint and retreat hastily from the room, leaving eight out of the original thirteen of their company.

“Thorin,” Dwalin wastes no time in pretentious manners and steps aside, allowing the trembling Ori to be seen in the middle of their little circle. Thorin rises hastily and steps down from the throne, regarding Ori suspiciously.

“My k-king,” Ori stutters with a last pitying glance that has the oldest living heir to the line of Durin prickling.

“Yes? What is it?” He spies the letter in Ori’s hand, “What news do you bring?” And then their entire assemblage is leaning in toward the young scribe, who doesn’t want to say it but knows that they’d find out sooner or later anyway. He opens the letter, gripping both ends of it tightly and pressing it close to his heart, whispering a prayer to the Vala for his dear friend and to Mahal for strength. Finally, he regards the letter with watery eyes, takes in a shaky breath, and reads:

“To whomever this may reach, please pass this message on to the King of Erebor, Ruler of the line of Durin, his majesty Thorin Oakenshield;

"King Thorin Oakenshield, while I wish I could spare time for pleasantries, there is none to waste in this dire matter. As I have come to understand, you were, at one point, accompanied by a lone hobbit named Bilbo Baggins.” Ori can’t bring himself to look at the lightning bolt of shock rippling through his king at the name, “As you have since fallen out of contact as of his banishment from Erebor, I do not expect you to know of his whereabouts to this present day,” and _dear Aulë,_ Thorin can feel the dread climbing up his throat in slimy clumps, “however, I do wish that you would care enough of it to help me.

“For, you see, Bilbo Baggins… is dying.” Ori took a moment to close flowing eyes as the dwarves around him burst into cries of despair and outrage. When he opened his eyes once more, he cast them to the ground; the white hue having since fallen over Thorin’s face along with the completely shattered look his ruler his suffering from is too much to bear; he presses forward.

“I have gotten my hands on every treatment in the planes of my reach; every healer and doctor in the Shire contacted, every disease considered; none have fit the description… until now. I have found that it is a dwarven disease that Bilbo has contracted and is currently under the influence of.” And the world is slowly falling around them, so they lean on each other for support, listening on in woe;

“He requires immediate treatment if there is any chance of him surviving, as he has already suffered for some months now. I beg of you, King Thorin Oakenshield; send help for Bilbo. Although you are not close now, if his stories are anything credible to go by- and you and I should both know that they are- you once were friends with Bilbo. I do not require your presence, nor your blessing; just a cure. He suffers from a Dwarven fever. If you care, send help- you shall later know either the futility or the effect of your efforts. And if n-not,” not once had Ori’s voice wavered during the entire reading until that point, but he pressed on toward the final few words, “you and the rest of the company are h-hereby… Formally invited to… the funeral, of Mister Bilbo Baggins.” Kili’s strangled whimper and Dori’s swift inhale showed the extreme impact of only just the words.

“I k-kn-know that is how he would have wanted it. Yours truly, Frodo Baggins.” Ori whispered, and silence hung heavy in the air, but only for a moment; Thorin unexpectedly staggered backwards, arousing Dwalin from his shocked-silent state and causing him to yelp as he barely caught the king in his arms.

“Thorin, Thorin?” “Be ye alright?” “It- It’s okay, Uncle, I, I’m sure we’ll-“ “Fili, please, don’t say that, not yet-“ “My King, how do you feel? Do you need some tea?”

Thorin waved off their concerns, sending a silent prayer to Nienna* to give him endurance in hope.

"I am fine, my friends-"

"About as fine as Bilbo is now," Dwalin growled. Thorin sighed.

"Dwalin-"

"All of yous, leave us fer' a moment, if ye could," Dwalin rumbled and really, there wasn't much room left for argument. Dwalin placed a hand on Balin's shoulder and watched as the rest of the company left. Then they turned to their king, only to see him place his head in his hands. Seeing not only their ruler but their friend in such a woebegone state, sitting slumped at the foot of the stairs to the throne as he was, it broke something in both their hearts.

"What am I to do?" The current king of the line of Durin asked himself, sounding confused and longing. Balin shuffled where he stood.

"You must send help for him immediately," he intoned, although he knew it was not quite the answer Thorin was looking for, "As for any measure after that… it is your decision to make.” Even if there were a twinkle in Balin’s eye that spoke all too knowledgeably of Thorin’s predicament. Thorin raised his head in time to see Dwalin nod in agreement, a slow, small smile coming to his gruff face.

“And this time of year, it should be nice in the Shire, should it not? Not t’mention that ye’ve been workin’ far too hard for far too long,” And the look that bragged of such sly intent _must_ have been a result from hanging around Fili and Kili for far too long. “If nothin’ else, it be a diplomatic visit to the land of a peaceful people. Culture, ‘n all that, to restore Erebor to its once knowleadgeable state.”

Thorin seems to finally regain his strength, rising up slowly from the foot of the proud stone steps. From the look on his face it is quite clear that the gears are turning and meshing as he plans and plots.

“Clever, you two are, and I can think of no greater reason to have you around,” he chuckles weakly, the brothers grinning right along. He turns serious and tells them, in his most booming kingly voice, to prepare the provisions for any dwarf of their company that may want to go along, to alert those currently at work in and out of the castle, that they _are going to the Shire_. The glint in his eye never fades, not even after they set off, for the first time in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did you all like it? I hope I did it justice- most of this bit was done on various occasions, I just would like to make sure it's all lined up. That and the editing on this site is a bit sketchy (also due to the fact that I am a half-wit when it comes to online... jargon, and such) and I might've reposted something? Well nevermind, I'm sure one of you readers will tell me if I've fooled around with something.
> 
> *Lady Nienna- "Lady of mercy... weeps constantly. But she does not weep for herself; and those who hearken to her learn pity, and endurance in hope. Her tears are those of healing and pity, not of sadness..." -Wikipedia, on the subject of the Vala (Middle Earth)


	3. To Finally Receive Aid!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is not well in Hobbiton- Bilbo grows sicker and sicker, Frodo more resigned, the Gamgees more worried; Where are the dwarves?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my! This chapter took me not so long as I thought it would, so you're getting it tonight as opposed to tomorrow (although here it's only five minutes 'til tomorrow, but hush about that!) Bagginshield, one-sided for now unfortunately, and Dwori! Pardon me, for I'm tired, and I don't have much else to say but enjoy!

Days of worry passed, and days turned into weeks, weeks into months; All the while Bilbo became sicker and sicker, and Frodo became hopeless; the Gamgees could barely find it within themselves to speak with the two Bagginses of Bag End, as their prospering unconsciousness and gloom became thicker, thicker. The Sackville-Bagginses twittered maliciously aqbout property and wills and meaningless, earthly things; the rest of the good hobbits of Hobbiton combating them at their every word. Slowly the entire town of quiet Hobbiton had become even quieter, their well-wishings becoming soft croons of mourning.

“They’re not coming, are they, Sam?” Sam remembered Frodo had whispered to him a while ago, staring brokenly out the window. His heart ached for his friend.

“It doesn’t appear to be that way, mister Frodo,” he could only murmur in his lassitude, watching as the last walls of hope were not torn down, but slowly, complacently picked apart, brick by brick.

The dwarves had been their last hope… and they had not come.

Not one note, not one letter; simple ignorance of their entire predicament. It made Sam feel sick inside.

After all they had been through together, after battles and friendships and jokes and combined mourning, after _everything_ Bilbo had told the hobbits about, one petty _stone_ was going to stop the dwarves from saving their once good friend’s life? One stupid _rock?_ Surely, it must have been a very pretty rock, no doubt about that; even Bilbo had admitted to its beauty when asked about it. But was it really worth dying over? Apparently so. It made Sam turn away from Bilbo’s bedridden form in anger more than once.

Perhaps the worst thing had been planning for Bilbo’s funeral: the hobbit, bless his unfortunate soul, no longer held consciousness long enough to help with it; it was put upon Frodo and the Gamgees to decide the course of action for Bilbo’s passing ceremony and final resting place. Sam knew he was not the only one to see how Frodo’s own life seemed to be sucked from him during this time.

Around four months since Bilbo had started feeling ill, and only about three since the healer Orgulas had been around, came the day that felt like the end of all things.

Bilbo lay barely, shockingly conscious, but only for the moment; it’d seemed as though he’d come to wish them goodbye. Frodo, Sam and Hamfast had been around at the time, Hamfast having come to tend to the garden that day and stayed later, and Sam and Frodo had as they’d always been, rushing about, taking the best care of Bilbo that they could. The night fell upon them with depressing foreboding, only the light of their candles and lanterns to shine upon the four despairing hobbits. Frodo leaned heavily upon Bilbo’s bedside, clutching his nearest hand as Samwise and Hamfast watched closely in horror as the brave little halfling began to finally fade.

“Uncle, uncle, please, please do not leave me; not here, not now,” Frodo wept, his cheeks flushed unattractively, the light once in his eyes now draining through his tears like a watering can with holes in the bottom. Bilbo rasped a sickly breath, eyes barely open, his skin as deathly pale as the snow that barely ghosted through the Shire, the snow as rare as such a horrid death.

“Then… then where… where would you have me… go, my boy? But… but when?” Bilbo struggled to keep his breath as a dim smile fell upon his lips. Hamfast wept silently, his hands resting on Sam’s shaking shoulders as he sobbed. Frodo’s expression curdled, eyes sorrowful and skin knotted in agony.

“I would have you stay until the very last drops of your life are wrung from you, and all the pleasures and wonders of the world you had then experienced,” Frodo’s eyes fell shut and a panicked, wet inhale racked through him, “I would have you not leave me until you told me all your stories, so that I may tell my sons and daughters, and my parents as well, when we reach the land beyond, but _together_.” The orphaned hobbit’s head dropped to Bilbo’s chest, and he only cried louder when a hand came to weakly stroke his curls. Was this truly the end for Bilbo? This meager passing by illness, after being spared by the gods through so many trials and tribulations? It was unfair, and unfit for one who deserved more, deserved so much more than this measly end. Bilbo closed his eyes and smiled, tears falling down his face.

Slowly, quietly, he began to murmur of far-off things; of quests and journeys of shunned kings that sought only revenge, of dragons and mountains of gold that truly meant nothing in the scope of their large world. He spoke of far-off lands and customs, of the voices of elves and how they soothed, as did the instruments of dwarves; of the sound of five entire armies clashing at once so that it seemed the entirety of Middle-Earth was covered in endless desolation. And finally, he spoke softly, of the friends he would never forget, the life he will never get, and the love he never got. It startled Frodo but he remained content to listen to the soft, uninterrupted thrum of Bilbo’s voice until it spoke no more. The moment Frodo realized this he cried out, the sound long and loud; a keening cry of mourning, one that echoed louder than even the Nazgul of Minas Morgul, the largest, most death-filled beasts on Middle Earth, the cry that rang true through the hearts of neighboring Hobbits who wept as they realized that their long-time friend had finally passed, without glory and in pain.

And it rattled the bones of a company of thirteen, mere minutes outside of the quiet of Hobbiton. Kili gasped in horror and buried his face in Fili’s arm. Bofur, Balin, and Ori, those that had been arguably closest to Bilbo, began to mourn, their other companions comforting them in their own ways. Thorin, leading the company as he had been at the very front, froze stock-still, not even a shudder rippling through him at the sound. A breeze passed, barely rustling his grey-streaked locks, before he started, hands gripped tightly to fists at his sides.

“The unlucky thirteen of our company curses our travel,” he hissed and turned back to them, his eyes ablaze with desperation and disbelief. The other dwarves stood and stared at their leader, still atop his pony while the others had decidedly gone on foot. He looked all the visage of royalty, yet far too broken to be a king. Their combined hearts ached for their lonely king, the Lonely King of the LonelyMountain.

“Forward! We shall ride until we have full evidence that Bilbo has passed; we shall find him, and by my soul, we shall save him. We shan’t stop when we have come so close, only to have what we seek ripped from our grasps! Bilbo did not give up on us when it came time to face the dragon; we will not give up on him!” he said with such conviction that none so dared to challenge him, and they were off, galloping loudly through the quiet dirt roads of the nightly Hobbiton, alerting the peaceful villagers, and they gathered many an eye as they rode. In short time they made it to Bag End and Thorin wasted no time in rapping harshly against the door (Aule save him, even Bilbo’s _door_ made his heart ache with memories).

Hamfast inside, startled at the noise, and angrily called back through his tears, thinking probably of the neighbors coming to check upon them; “Leave us in peace this moment! You will get your time with the deceased!”

It was still for only a moment before the harsh knocking was back again, and Hamfast sighed angrily, wiping the tears from his eyes. He turned the curious Sam to comfort Frodo, who had not moved from his uncle’s side once, before going to confront those who had come to the door.

‘How dare they come,’ he thought, his head stormy, ‘when they have only just realized that he is gone, instead of waiting with him to the very end!’ truly Hamfast would not normally be so outrageously irate, but the loss of his dear friend and the lack of proper rest he’d recently suffered drove him to be fuming at the mere thought of visitors- and at this time of night as well! Why, the absolute Tookish _nerve-_

“I say, you can come back at a later date, you blasted-“ Hamfast stormed up to the front door, anger and sorrow fueling his rant until he grasped the shiny golden knob and wrenched it open. He promptly froze and let his jaw fall, staring in confusion and mild fright; for there, at his friend’s door, were a group of rough and tumble, angry-looking, windblown-

“Dwarves,” he incoherently mumbled, stumbling back from the door. The lot of them took advantage of this and quickly, there they were, _so many of them,_ where were they all coming from-?

“Dori, at your service, mister Hobbit sir,” the old dwarf smiled at Hamfast as he bobbed and ducked to look around at the dwarves suddenly invading Bag End, “If you’d just follow me, I’ll bring you to the kitchen, and we’ll settle down for some tea-“

“But how-? Who-? Wha- why are-“ Hamfast stuttered, and Dori simply spun him in the direction of the kitchen, helpfully guiding him with “It’s alright, we’re professionals, I’ll tell you all about us-“

In a matter of seconds the dwarves had piled into Bag End and made it seem their own, dropping various weapons and cloaks in random areas, shoes abandoned at the door, dwarves running all about and shouting across Bag End; Ori swiftly heading to Bilbo’s personal library to look for anything medical that could possibly help (and, unashamedly, a few knitting patterns as well, for when Bilbo recovered); Dwalin wanted to follow Ori (lifting books was hard work, after all) but instead helped Gloin half-drag-half-carry Samwise and Frodo out of Bilbo’s room, leading their star-struck forms and awed gazes into the kitchen; Kili and Fili quickly ducked into the pantry, bringing out various foods and such to feed the company and the over tired ponies, although they _really_ wanted to see Bilbo first (that they had made quite verbally obvious) but knew they had to give the hobbit some space; Bombur helped in the kitchen to prepare some of his best soups and liquid foodstuffs, Bifur and Bofur outside, tying up and tending to the ponies and their bags, and Nori starting up a roaring fire in the hearth.

Finally, Oin and Thorin were gathered in Bilbo’s room, Thorin standing just close enough to see the detail upon ( _his poor, pale, sickly_ ) Bilbo’s face, but far away enough to give Oin space to move around and conduct his hasty examinations. Oin turned only slightly away from Bilbo to stare seriously at Thorin.

“He’s not dead- yet,” causing Thorin’s relieved sigh to stick in his throat, “he’s just unconscious. Nearly comatose. If we’d been here any later, it would’ve been too late,” he turned back to Bilbo and started mussing around with the covers. “Tell one of the boys to bring in me medication pack.” Thorin nearly leapt out the door at the chance.

Truly, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Bilbo, but seeing him in such a state made him feel faint. Oin had offered no help whatsoever with his gruff, clipped words, not to mention the fact that _they had almost been too late._ It seemed that as of late, there was no good to come to him, and his distracted state of mind caused him to trip (very _un_ -majestically if I do say so myself) over the doorstep. He faltered only a moment before straightening up, his cheeks heated to near visibility with embarrassment, and he turned only slightly to see if any of his fellows had seen it. He was met with pitying and concerned stares before they all quickly moved back about their business. Thorin huffed to himself.

‘Nonsense,’ he internally scolded himself as he hurriedly moved out to meet Bofur and quickly snatch up the rucksack containing Oin’s various medical supplies, ‘this is no time to be thinking of posture. Bilbo is my first and foremost priority.’ Something twisted ruefully in his ribcage when the reminder that Bilbo had almost _always_ been his first and foremost priority came to him.

‘Truly, I am equal parts a king and a fool,’ he worked with an absent mind, and he soon found himself sitting in a very comfortable armchair (that _smelt_ like Bilbo- was _everything_ out to get him this night?) sitting in the corner of the room, watching sullenly as the love of his life was slowly nursed into a more stable state by Oin. Certainly not healthy, but stable, and that was enough to keep Thorin from gripping the arms of the chair so tightly that they turned pale with force (really, he only wanted to hold Bilbo’s hand, that would settle his heart for time being, but he had to give Oin the space to move about or else… well, he didn’t want to think of the _or else_ ). However, it did not stop Thorin from fretting, no, far from it. That first night, that first horrible, terrible night, where there was still the possibility that Bilbo could slip from them if they did not check his health _ever so carefully,_ that night was the worst for Thorin. He did not sleep, not once; his eyelids never wavered, taking care to consume _copious_ amounts of tea to keep himself awake. He knew that if he lost his dear little burglar, the thief of his heart, this night, that he would surely not live to see the morning either. Many a prayer was sent to the gods that night, as well as many grateful thanks.

“I must thank you again for coming,” the slightly flustered and rather tired Frodo told the dwarves in the kitchen again later that night, those who had no job to do at the moment, since there was only so much to do in a predicament such as theirs. “I had completely lost hope- that you would not come at all. I was seeing Bilbo… away… just as you burst through the door.” Frodo curled into his chair, watery eyes staring into his mug of tea. Fili, seated on his left, and Kili, seated to his right, both leaned to offer comfort to the young lad.

“Nonsense!” Fili exclaimed, but quietly, as some of their company were, in fact, asleep; “We would never let Uncle Bilbo go uncared for. Yes, it took us a while, that much is true, but you can be sure that we would never let a friend suffer, were it our choice!” Kili’s large, rough dwarven hand came to rest upon Frodo’s shoulder, drawing the young hobbit’s large blue eyes.

“’Ey there Frodo, he’s right, Fili is. Only reason we weren’t here sooner was ‘coz of the mountains. Goblins gave us a bit of trouble, yes they did, but we gave ‘em trouble back. We’d lost some provisions and our ponies though- thank the Maker none of the medical stuffs were lost- but we got here as soon as we could, I swear it.” Frodo smiled, a heartfelt thing that made the brothers want to hug him and make sure he never felt the terrible touch of death and sorrow again, for they were already forming a close bond with the lonely little one. Sam, who had been sitting on the left of Fili, stared at them in awe.

“Goblins?” he asked in such an awed voice that if matched his eyes, and the nephews to the king of the line of Durin laughed and exploded into their tale, earning a reprimand from Hamfast, who had been having surprisingly amiable chat with Gloin on the topic of their sons, bother being very proud fathers (they both seemed to figure that Gimli and Sam would get to meet one day, and I don’t mean to be a spoil-sport, but I think they would be unhappy with just how right they were!).

“Did yeh hear about Bilbo?” Dwalin asked gruffly from the corner of their table, the seat to his liking, as the spot gave him full view of everyone in the front hall and a bit down the corridor (Balin, Bofur, Bifur, Nori and Dori having shuffled about the Hobbit hole, finding a spot to settle for the night, as it _was_ quite late; that being further proven by the sight of Nori asleep in front of the fire) and everyone in the kitchen (those of them left that weren’t Oin or Thorin).

Ori blinked tiredly up at the hulking figure of his companion.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” he asked, and Dwalin felt a bit bad, because Ori, out of all of them, had been the most devastated, and had lost the most sleep; the young scribe and the odd hobbit had become fast friends on their journey. He should’ve been asleep, but nay; he refused to, not when he could be of some help (despite his limited knowledge of medication and Oin’s famous ointment, he still insisted that he could do _something, anything_ but sit around idly). Dwalin mentally shook the thought, as he would’ve looked quite silly, shaking his tattooed head about in the middle of a conversation, so of course it was mentally (and Mahal, just how tired was he to be having these thoughts?).

“I asked if ye’d heard about Bilbo’s condition,” he reiterated, shuffling only just a _bit_ closer to Ori (because if he couldn’t hear him, then he should be closer, he justified, and that excuse sounded like it was coming from a 30-year-old). “Yeh seemed worried ‘bout him, moreso than the rest of us. He’s alive. Not well, but we’re certainly trying to get ‘im on the road to it.” And the soft smile that bloomed onto Ori’s face was _definitely_ worth keeping him up for. Just the sight of the young dwarf smiling up at him, eyes _adorably_ sleepy and hands- near covered in his too-large sweater- clasped around the warm mug of tea was near too much to bear for him. He just wanted to wrap his arms around him and-

Mahal curse him, he was _sappy_ when he was tired (some would laugh and just say “Only a bit more so than usual!). The Vala _forbid_ he _not_ feel like his heart was melting all the damn time.

“I do hope he get’s better soon,” Ori admitted tiredly, his eyes suddenly focusing on his mug (and _no,_ Dwalin fiercely told his twitching hand that he _did not_ want to tilt up the lad’s chin) “I do confess that I’ll probably sleep better when he does.” Dwalin nodded, already knowing this.

“Aye, but for now, you should be tryin’ to be gettin’ as much sleep as ye can-“ Ori frowned, but Dwalin knew what to say for once “-so that ye can be more help to Bilbo when yer’ fully refreshed.” Ori’s mouth closed at that, and he nodded in a most resigned manner. And when Dwalin made sure that Ori went to sleep that night, well, he would be lying if he said he hadn’t _maybe_ cradled Ori’s cheek in his palm before leaving him to his rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! More to come hopefully soon- this chapter was indeed posted early. Thank you so much for all your lovely comments and kudos and bookmarks everyone! I feel the love!


	4. Much needed sleep!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin can't sleep and drinks entirely too much tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat of a short chapter, but a chapter after so long. Hopefully you all will enjoy Thorin's inner musings.

The night spent worrying at Bilbo's bedside was the single longest of Thorin's life.

When Smaug had attacked, Thorin had been emotionally traumatized and had fallen asleep easily when bade to, face buried in his cloak, trying to rid himself of the smell of salt as he rested in one of the only available inn rooms at Laketown.

The night before he'd set out on the journey with his Company, Dis had blessedly fed him turkey to put his nerves to rest and told the boys to leave their Uncle alone, and he'd dropped out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

But with Bilbo, he would not allow rest to come to him. All night, he idly shifted around the cozy smial, from Bilbo's cursedly soft chair (warm and soft and welcoming, and smelling so much like his One, Thorin caught himself dozing off a few times) to the kitchen and the pantry, constantly reheating and refilling, every 45 minutes to an hour, which Oin, bless the dwarf's stubborn soul, occasionally accompanied him for, when he was not checking up on Bilbo.

'Bilbo...' Thorin was back in the armchair now, which was quickly becoming his favorite, and had begun to stare at the little Hobbit that had claimed his heart. 'I'm so sorry, my hobbit, my burglar... If only I had come sooner, had I caught word of your state, or even that you had wanted to see me at all...' Thorin's brow began to crinkle in sorrow, deep blue eyes studying the bedridden halfling. 'If only I had not taken you for granted in the first place, had I not banished you in my madness...'

Thorin, in his worn-out state, felt the most basic emotions and thoughts curl uncomfortably around his gut, slithering and curling around his heart and through his throat. The memory of attempting to toss Bilbo off the side of the mountain, like some petty thief, something so easily brushed aside, would haunt him forever, he knew. Every moment he had spent in that mountain had been dedicated to the memory of the time Bilbo had spent with him. Being the king the dwarrow of Erebor deserved was the least he could possibly do. Bilbo, poor, beautiful Bilbo, determined and stubborn, strong and willing, soft and pleasant. He had spent those months on their terrifying journey with them, but for what? Bilbo had had a home, a family, respectability... anything any sensible Hobbit could want, and yet, he had left it all behind, and for what? A Valar-damned adventure? A hopeless journey and a baseless empathetic connection? Or had it simply been fate?

And Thorin had gone and made a disaster of it all in but a few days' time...

The Dwarf King's fingers had turned white and were biting into the skin of his palm. He sighed and shook his hand, waving the stinging feeling away. It was no use thinking about such dreary things when his Hobbit was mere feet away, on the road to recovery, and hopefully in Thorin's case, the road to forgiveness.

Thorin, realizing he had sent Oin to get another cup of tea, since he was absolutely sure there was nothing else he could do for the time being (whatever the time being was, as it was far too late? Early? To really tell), sat up attentively. He was alone with Bilbo, something he would not have allowed himself had he fully realized. He didn't trust himself to watch over Bilbo, not alone. He was knowledgeable in the ways of healing, of course, but not nearly as extensively as Oin. But he could not very well leave the room. What if something happened in the few moments the room were empty? Thorin would never forgive himself, not that he really ever had.

And besides... Thorin's fingers itched to run themselves through Bilbo's dulled, damp, curly locks. What if he let himself touch the Hobbit? Not disrespectfully, Mahal no, and especially not without consent. He'd rather have his hands cut from his person than contemplate it. But... a touch to the cheek? His rough fingers running across Bilbo's softer ones? What if he were to wake, what would be done in such a situation? No, he would rather not disturb Bilbo at all, much less at such a dismal time for him.

But... Thorin analyzed the resting ex-burglar. He could not forbid himself the pleasure of seeing Bilbo alive, breathing, calmer than he had ever been on or after the journey.

And so, as more of a subconscious decision than anything, Thorin stood, wincing at the creaking of his bones (somewhere in the back of his mind, a memory of Fili and Kili teasing him for his grey hair stirred vaguely), and strode as silently as he could across the room, pulling a stool from the kitchen they had pilfered closer to Bilbo's bed. Silently he watched and relaxed against the wall, comforted by the rise and fall of the sickly halfling's chest. For a moment, the once exiled king slipped, imagining how in this cheerful smial, this comfortable bed had almost been Bilbo's final resting place. He closed his eyes, willing his throat to open back up.

No longer would he stay from the Hobbit, he decided as he began to slip into an exhausted slumber. Whether his feelings were returned or if Bilbo kicked them all out come his awakening, Thorin would always try to apologize, to gain forgiveness. Mahal, Bilbo was his love, his One, his treasure of treasures. If he could not have him, then he would, at the very least, ensure his lasting health and happiness from that day forward, through any means necessary. Not ever again would Bilbo suffer so.

Mental filter dissipated by the lack of sleep, Thorin tentatively placed his hand atop Bilbo's, settling when the other did not wake. And such is how Oin found them naught but moments later, the first morning's light beginning to shine softly against the horizon, blessing the sleep of Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins.


End file.
